IC-N 


A  TR£OP  OF 
THE  GUARD 


HEK^T\NN  HAGEDOJ^N 


A  TROOP  OF  THE  GUARD 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


ft 


A  TROOP   OF 
THE   GUARD 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


* 


HERMANN  HAGEDORN 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

MDCCCCXI 


ft\  \ft\ 


COPYRIGHT,   1909,  BY  HERMANN  HAGEDORN 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  IQOQ 


THIRD   IMPRESSION 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER 

LOFTY  IN  THOUGHT,  GENEROUS  IN  SERVICE 

BRAVE  IN  TROUBLE 
AND   EVER   PATIENT,  LOVING,  WISE 

I  DEDICATE 

WHATEVER   IN   THESE    VERSES 

IS  WORTHY  OF  HER  DEAR 

AND  GENTLE  SPIRIT 


263486 


CONTENTS 

THRENODY:  A.  H.  1849-1909  xi 

PART  I 

LINCOLN  :    AN  ODE  3 
A  TROOP  OF  THE  GUARD :    HARVARD  CLASS 

POEM  IO 

LINES  ON  MEMORIAL  DAY  15 

THE  MIGHTIER  POESY  19 

PART  II 

SONG  27 

THE  WORSHIPERS  28 

REBELS  29 

SONG  AT  MIDNIGHT  30 

SONG  IN  DARKNESS  3  I 

A  PARTING  32 

FORGIVENESS  39 

LINES  TO  A  DOG  4O 

"WHERE  E'ER  MY  WAYS  GO"  42 


TO  A  LARK  OF  THEBES  43 

THE  GLORIOUS  BONDAGE  44 

THE  AWAKENING  46 

RETURN  47 
SONGS  FROM  THE  ROCKIES 

I.    "INTO  THE  WILDERNESS,  COME!"          50 

II.    REVEILLE  5O 

III.  "  DID  YOU  SEE  ME  COMING,  LOVE?  "       5! 

IV.  THE  LEAVEN  OF  TWILIGHT  51 

v.  DAY'S  END  52 

VI.    NIGHT  RIDE  53 

PART    III 
MIDNIGHT  IN  EUROPE,  TWILIGHT  IN 

NEW  YORK  57 

BATTLE  SONG  OF  THE  HOPEFUL  63 

FOG  64 

FIGHTERS  65 

SONG  OF  THE  GRAIL  SEEKERS  66 

SUNDAY  MORNING  ON  FIFTH  AVENUE  67 

CALM  SEA  68 

THE  GREATER  BIRTH  69 
viii 


TO  A  BELOVED  COMPANION  7 1 

HYMN  TO  ARTEMIS  73 
"  MY  TRUE  LOVE  FROM  HER  PILLOW  ROSE  "       74 

AUTUMN  TWILIGHT  75 

SONG  UNDER  THE  STARS  76 

WINTER  77 

APPREHENSION  78 

RESIGNATION  79 

THE  GARDENS  OF  FERRARA  80 

ODE  BY  THE  SEA  84 

SONNET  IN  CANDLELIGHT  87 

CONCERNING  SONNETS  88 

SUMMER'S  END  89 

SONG  FROM  THE  GARDENER*.S  LODGE  90 

SONG  OF  THE  WICKED  FRIAR  92 

LULLABY  93 

The  author  extends  his  thanks  to  the  editors  of  the  following  maga- 
zines for  permission  to  reprint  the  subjoined  poems  :  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
"  My  True  Love  from  her  Pillow  Rose"  ;  The  Forum,  "  Midnight  in 
Europe,  Twilight  in  New  York,"  and  "  Song  from  the  Gardener's 
Lodge." 


THRENODY 

A.  H. 
1849-1909 


How  gently  broods  the  Sabbath  o'er  the  earth  ! 

The  fervid  west  wind,  driving  o'er  the  sea 
His  champing  stallions,  hums  with  quiet  mirth, 

Not  pain,  as  yestermorn ;  not  misery 

As  yesternight,  whose  pallid  child,  the  moon, 
In  heaven's  gold  chamber  where  the  slow  days  die, 

Sobbed  in  her  silver  cradle.  Soon,  too  soon, 

She  sank  to  rest,  but  lo,  the  sea,  the  wind, 
Sing  with  new  voices  and  the  bent  reeds  croon. 

The  frail,  white  princess  of  the  night  is  kind. 

The  mists  that  harrowed  like  far  crowded  ships 
The  sea's  marge,  flee  before  her,  and  the  blind 

And  stumbling  sun  breaks  from  his  dark  eclipse 
Of  storm,  and  grants,  with  largess  never  guessed, 
xi 


Silk  for  the  sea's  robe,  jewels  for  her  breast, 
Peace  to  her  spirit,  music  to  her  lips. 

II 

Oh,  glowing  day  of  rapture  and  soft  airs  ! 

How  often  have  thy  kindred,  glad  as  thou, 
Played  at  my  side  and  sped  my  childish  cares, 

Lightly  !   Alas,  thou  canst  not  speed  them  now  — 

The  tears  that  burn  unshed  within  my  eyes, 
The  heaviness  that  weighs  upon  my  brow  ! 

I  gaze  on  thy  large  bounty  and  surmise 

That  hearts  somewhere  may  leap  at  thy  glad  call ; 
But  to  my  sight  in  strange  and  spectral  guise 

Thou  comest  —  like  a  shadow  leading  all 

Thy  far  dead  shadowy  brothers  in  thy  train  — 
Those  dear  lost  days  in  which  a  sparrow's  fall 

Was  tragedy,  a  finger-prick  was  pain, 

And  love  was  as  the  sky  without  a  cloud, 
A  deep,  felicitous,  unplumbed  domain. 

Oh,  sweet,  far  days  !  The  voices  that  were  loud 
In   your   brief  reign  are    hushed.  That   dearest 

voice  — 

That  knew  not  to  be  bitter,  nay,  nor  proud, 
xii 


Nor  aught  that  was  not  pure  and  of  God's  choice— 

Silence  hath  borne  it  to  his  own  far  hill 
As  he  bears  all  earth's  music,  to  rejoice 

Alone  over  his  treasure.  Mute  and  chill 

I  watch  the  pageant  of  mankind  surge  by. 
She  is  not  there  !   And  can  I  linger  still 

Toiling  and  planning,  laughing  even  as  I 

Laughed,    as   she   sat    beside    me    and    laughed, 

too? 
How  strangely  we  live  on  when  loved  ones  die ! 

I  wander  down  the  solemn  beach,  and  through 

The  long  dune  grass,  and  in  my  heart  the  pain 
Of  dreaming  of  those  other  days  with  you, 

My  mother,  whom  I  shall  not  see  again, 

Clutches  me,  till  the  looming  form  of  Death, 
Towering  above  me  with  his  large  disdain, 

Makes  all  that  is,  a  bubble  and  a  breath. 

I  listen  to  the  sea,  the  dismal  sound 
Of  surge  and  ebb,  that  like  a  crying  wraith 

Moans  to  the  sand  its  pain  till  pain  is  drowned 

In  louder-tongued  despair.   Grief  like  a  storm, 
A  passion,  a  wild  hope,  forever  bound 
xiii 


To  unavailing  longing,  her  chill  form 

Presses  against  my  breast.   Oh,  pale,  pale  face, 
So  cold  and  silent  where  my  joy  was  warm 

With    converse   and  clasped   hands  and   love   and 

grace ! 

Oh,  spectral  shape,  that  like  a  mist  I  feel 
Drawing  all  things  into  thy  wide  embrace  !  — 

I  know  that  not  for  man  is  joy  or  weal 

More  than  a  flitting  hour,  but  oh,  dark  bride  — 
Of  men  and  ghosts  and  dreams  and   love   and 
pride, 

Art  thou  the  only  comrade  that  art  real  ? 


in 

Oh,  fragile  house  of  joy,  melodious 

And  sunny  chambers,  of  what  airy  stuff 
Are  built  your  walls,  that  the  imperious 

And  single  word  of  death  should  be  enough 

To  shatter  them  forever  ?  We  are  men 
Racing  upon  the  sharp  and  perilous  bluff 

That  overhangs  despair.  Beyond  our  ken, 
The  reason  of  our  striving  and  its  goal 
Lie  undiscerned.  One  wins  a  crown,  and  ten 
xiv 


Into  the  mute  and  dismal  blackness  roll 

Where  walk  the  sorrowful,  and  none  may  guess 
How  soon  the  shades  shall  close  above  his  soul. 

Out  of  the  deep  a  thousand  questions  press. 

Unanswering,  we  plod  on,  unknowing,  strive ; 

For  at  our  heels  the  sweeping  ages  drive, 
And  we  must  toil  and  toil  and  acquiesce. 


IV 

Upon  the  silent  shore  alone  with  grief 

I  sat  and  pondered  on  the  lost,  dead  years. 
How  ardent  the  desires,  how  pale,  how  brief, 

Fulfillment ;  how  of  dust  and  of  the  spheres 

Compounded  is  man's  love,  and  lo,  how  soon 
In  the  deep,  ever-brimming  cup  of  tears 

Melts    the    bright    pearl    that    is     God's    greatest 

boon  ! 

Love,  what  art  thou  that  we  should  cry  to  thee 
As  the  waves  cry  unto  the  silent  moon  ? 

Thine  end  is  loneliness  and  misery, 

The  yearning  of  the  sleepless  for  the  day, 
A  frail  remembrance,  at  whose  feet  we  lay 

Our  poor,  dumb  gifts  of  pain  and  constancy ! 
xv 


What  is  thy  consolation,  O  my  God, 

To  us  who  mourn  ?  Not  cheap  forgetfulness, 
That  'neath  the  living  blanket  of  green  sod 

Love's  long  devotion  and  her  deep  distress 

Would    bury.      Nay,    nor    other    loves,    more 

young, 
More  joyous,  with  pure  hands  and  lips,  to  dress 

The  heart's  wound  till  it  heal.    Such  hands  have 

clung 

Compassionately  to  mine,  such  lips  have  given 
The  tender  pity  of  a  strong  soul,  wrung 

With  kindred  anguish,  but  man's  deep  heart  riven 

Of  death  finds  not  its  comfort  thus,  nor  peace. 

Each  love  has  its  own  tears,  nor  earth  nor  heaven 

Can  with  fresh  gifts  of  glory  bid  men  cease 

Mourning    the    lost.     Sweet    friend,    not    you 

nor  I 
Can  from  the  other's  bleeding  heart  release 

The  crushing  hands  of  sorrow.  Though  the  cry 
Of  our  desire  be  one,  and  of  our  love, 
Our  faith,  our  ultimate  hope  —  beside  us  move 

Still  our  twain  griefs  that  cannot  blend  nor  die. 
xvi 


VI 

The  day  turns  dusk.  Through  the  light  sand  I  plod 

Homeward,  and  ponder  on  my  fruitless  woe. 
What  is  thy  consolation,  O  my  God  ? 

I  watch  the  creamy  ripples  surge,  and  flow 

Back  to  the  heart  of  waters.  This  dark  sea, 
This  is  eternal.  Ages  come  and  go 

O'er  its  proud  surface,  sadly,  laughingly, 

Bringing  their  storms,  their  wailings,  their  calm 

sleep. 
But  never  death,  nor  silence !  What  if  we 

Should  on  a  wide  and  spiritual  deep 

Be  the  pale  waves  that  from  the  azure  bourn 
An  instant  greet  the  earth's  light,  laugh  and  weep 

Beneath  the  sun,  and  happily  return 

To  the  embracing  Unity  ?  Ah,  then 
*T  is  not  for  us  to  sit  apart  and  mourn 

For  those  who  from  the  shallow  sight  of  men 

Have  sunk  back  to  that  sea  !  For  we  are  one  — 
The  living  and  the  dead  —  I,  denizen 

An  instant  of  this  earth,  you  who  have  gone, 

My  mother,  still  beside  me,  though  unseen  ! 
Then  let  the  cries  of  my  despair  be  done ! 
xvii 


I  cannot  lose  that  which  hath  ever  been 

And  ever  shall  be !  You  are  here,  my  true, 
Clear-sighted  friend !  No  space  can  intervene 

With  mortal  barriers  now  'twixt  me  and  you ! 

I  need  not  speak,  for  ever  must  you  hear 
Th'  unspoken  love ;  nor  cry,  nor  yet  renew 

The  pleading  of  my  anguish,  for  your  ear 

Is  tuned  to  music  subtler  than  man's  thought. 
Lo,  as  I  stand  beneath  the  stars,  and  peer 

Over  the  pale-ridged  sea,  the  dusk  hath  brought 
Your  presence  to  my  spirit's  new-born  sight. 
You  stand  beside  me,  silent,  where  I  sought 

Only  my  grief.  I  feel  the  old  delight 

Of  comradeship,  I  see  your  deep,  blue  eyes  — = 
With  joyful  tears  after  long  parting,  bright, 

As  oft  they  were  —  so  pure,  so  steadfast,  wise, 

I  feel  my  soul  as  from  a  cloudy  vale 
Light  and  exultant  as  a  skylark  rise ! 

I  do  not  fear  what  Death,  the  strong,  the  pale, 
Surging  upon  life's  beaches,  may  destroy. 
With  open  hands  I  yield  earth's  temporal  joy; 

The  mightier  rapture  Death  cannot  assail. 


xvm 


PART   I 


LINCOLN:   AN   ODE 

LET  silence  sink  upon  the  hills  and  vales ! 

Over  the  towns  where  smoke  and  clangor  tell 
Their  glad  and  sorrowfully  noble  tales 

Of  women  bent  with  care,  of  men  who  labor 

well, 
Let  silence  sink  and  peace  and  rest  from  toil. 

Oh,  vast  machines,  be  still !   Oh,  hurrying  men, 
Eddying  like  chaff  upon  the  frothy  moil 

Of  seething  waters,  rest !   In  tower  and  den, 
High  in  the  heavens,  deep  in  the  cavernous  ground, 
There  where  men's  hearts  like  pulsing  engines  bound, 
Let  silence  lull  with  loving  hands  the  sound. 

Silence  —  ah,  through  the  silence,  clear  and  strong, 
Surging  like  wind-driven  breakers,  sweeps  a  song ! 

Out  of  the  North,  loud  from  storm-beaten  strings, 
Out  of  the  East,  with  strife-born  ardor  loud, 
Out  of  the  West,  youthful  and  glad  and  proud, 

The  cry  of  honor,  honor,  honor  !  rings. 


(Read  at  the  Lincoln  Centenary  Celebration  of  the  Military  Order  of 
the  Loyal  Legion  of  the  United  States,  Commandery  of  Pennsylvania, 
at  Jthe  Academy  of  Music  in  Philadelphia,  February  12,  1909.) 

3 


And  clear  with  trembling  mouth, 
Sipping  in  dreams  the  bitter  cup,  the  South 
Magnanimous  unfeigned  tribute  brings. 

Oh,  prosperous  millions,  hush  your  grateful  cries ! 
The  sanctity  of  things  not  of  this  earth 

Broods  on  this  place  — 

Wide  things  and  essences  that  have  their  birth 
In  the  unwalled,  unmeasured  homes  of  space; 
Spirits  of  men  that  went  and  left  no  trace, 

Only  their  labor  to  attest  their  worth 
In  the  world's  tear-dim,  unforgetting  eyes : 
Spirits  of  heroes  !   Hark  ! 
Through  the  shadow-mists,  the  dark, 
Hear  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  marchers,  living, 

who  were  cold  and  stark! 
Hear  the  bugle,  hear  the  fife ! 
How  they  scorn  the  grave ! 
Oh,  on  earth  is  love  and  life 
For  the  noble,  for  the  brave. 
And  it 's  tread,  tread,  tread  ! 
From  the  camp-fires  of  the  dead, 
Oh,  they  're  marching,  they  are  marching  with  their 

Captain  at  their  head  ! 
Greet  them  who  have  gone  before  ! 
Spread  with  rose  and  bay  the  floor  — 
They  have  come,  oh,  they  have  come,  back  once 
more ! 


Give  for  the  soldier  the  cheer, 
For  the  messmate  the  welcoming  call, 
But  for  him,  the  noblest  of  all, 
Silence  and  reverence  here. 
Oh,  patient  eyes,  oh,  bleeding,  mangled  heart ! 
Oh,  hero,  whose  wide  soul,  defying  chains, 
Swept  at  each  army's  head, 
Swept  to  the  charge  and  bled, 
Gathering  in  one  too  sorrow-laden  heart 
All  woes,  all  pains: 

The  anguish  of  the  trusted  hope  that  wanes, 

The  soldier's  wound,  the  lonely  mourner's  smart. 

He  knew  the  noisy  horror  of  the  fight. 

From  dawn  to  dusk  and  through  the  hideous  night 

He  heard  the  hiss  of  bullets,  the  shrill  scream 

Of  the  wide-arching  shell, 

Scattering  at  Gettysburg  or  by  Potomac's  stream, 
Like  summer  showers,  the  pattering  rain  of  death ; 
With  every  breath, 

He  tasted  battle  and  in  every  dream, 

Trailing  like  mists  from  gaping  walls  of  hell, 
He  heard  the  thud  of  heroes  as  they  fell. 
Oh,  man  of  many  sorrows,  't  was  your  blood 
That  flowed  at  Chickamauga,  at  Bull  Run, 
Vicksburg,  Antietam  and  the  gory  wood 
And  Wilderness  of  ravenous  Deaths  that  stood 
Round  Richmond  like  a  ghostly  garrison : 
Your  blood  for  those  who  won, 
5 


For  those  who  lost,  your  tears ! 
For  you  the  strife,  the  fears, 
For  us,  the  sun  ! 
For  you  the  lashing  winds  and  the  beating  rain  in 

your  eyes, 

For  us  the  ascending  stars  and  the  wide,  unbounded 
skies. 

Oh,  man  of  storms  !   Patient  and  kingly  soul ! 

Oh,  wise  physician  of  a  wasted  land ! 

A  nation  felt  upon  its  heart  your  hand, 
And  lo,  your  hand  hath  made  the  shattered  whole. 
With  iron  clasp  your  hand  hath  held  the  wheel 
Of  the  lurching  ship,  on  tempest  waves,  no  keel 

Hath  ever  sailed. 

A  grim  smile  held  your  lips  while  strong  men 
quailed. 

You  strove  alone  with  chaos  and  prevailed ; 
You  felt  the  grinding  shock  and  did  not  reel. 
And,  ah,  your  hand  that  cut  the  battle's  path 
Wide  with  the  devastating  plague  of  wrath, 

Your  bleeding  hand,  gentle  with  pity  yet, 

Did  not  forget 
To  bless,  to  succor,  and  to  heal. 

Great  brother  to  the  lofty  and  the  low, 

Our  tears,  our  tears  give  tribute  !  A  dark  throng, 
With  fetters  of  hereditary  wrong 
6 


Chained,  serf-like,  in  the  choking  dust  of  woe, 
Lifts  up  its  arms  to  you,  lifts  up  its  cries  ! 
Oh,  you,  who  knew  all  anguish,  in  whose  eyes, 

Pity,  with  tear-stained  face, 
Kept  her  long  vigil  o'er  the  severed  lands 

For  friend  and  foe,  for  race  and  race ; 
You,  to  whom  all  were  brothers,  by  the  strands 

Of  spirit,  of  divinity, 

Bound  not  to  color,  church,  or  sod, 
Only  to  man,  only  to  God ; 
You,  to  whom  all  beneath  the  sun 

Moved  to  one  hope,  one  destiny  — 

Lover  of  liberty,  oh,  make  us  free  ! 
Lover  of  union,  Master,  make  us  one  ! 

Master  of  men  and  of  your  own  great  heart, 

We  stand  to  reverence,  we  cannot  praise. 

About  our  upward-straining  orbs,  the  haze 
Of  earthly  things,  the  strife,  the  mart, 

Rises  and  dims  the  far-flung  gaze. 

We  cannot  praise ! 

We  are  too  much  of  earth,  our  teeming  minds, 
Made  master  of  the  beaten  seas  and  of  the  con- 
quered winds, 

Master  of  mists  and  the  subservient  air, 
Too  sure,  too  earthly  wise, 
Have  mocked  the  soul  within  that  asks  a  nobler  prize, 

And  hushed  her  prayer. 

7 


We  know  the  earth,  we  know  the  starry  skies, 
And  many  gods  and  strange  philosophies ; 
But  you,  because  you  opened  like  a  gate 
Your  soul  to  God,  and  knew  not  pride  nor  hate, 
Only  the  Voice  of  voices  whispering  low  — 
You,  oh  my  Master,  you  we  cannot  know. 

Oh,  splendid  crystal,  in  whose  depths  the  light 

Of  God  refracted  healed  the  hearts  of  men, 
Teach  us  your  power  ! 
For  all  your  labor  is  a  withered  flower 

Thirsting  for  sunbeams  in  a  murky  den, 
Unless  a  voice  shatters  as  once  the  night, 

Crying,  Emancipation  !  yet  again. 
For  we  are  slaves  to  petty,  temporal  things, 

Whipped  with  the  cords  of  prejudice,  and  bound 
Each  to  his  race,  his  creeds,  his  kings, 

Each  to  his  plot  of  sterile  ground, 

His  narrow-margined  daily  round. 
Man  is  at  war  with  man  and  race  with  race. 
We  gaze  into  the  brother's  face 

And  never  see  the  crouching,  hungry  pain. 

Only  the  clanking  of  the  slavish  chain 
We  hear,  that  holds  us  to  our  place. 

Oh,  to  be  free,  oh,  to  be  one ! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  to  strive  and  to  dare ! 
What  matter  the  race  if  the  labor  be  done, 
8 


What  matter  the  color  if  God  be  there  ? 
Forward  together,  onward  to  the  goal ! 
Oh,  mighty  Chief,  who  in  your  own  great  soul, 
Hung  with  the  fetters  of  a  lowly  birth, 
The  kinship  of  the  visionless,  the  obstinate  touch 

of  earth, 

Broke  from  the  tethering  slavery,  and  stood 
Unbound,  translucent,  glorious  before  God  !  — 
Be  with  us,  Master !  These  unseeing  eyes 
Waken  to  light,  our  erring,  groping  hands 

Unfetter  for  a  world's  great  needs  ! 
Till,  like  Creation's  dawning,  golden  through  the 

lands 
Leaping,  and  up  th'  unlit,  unconquered  skies 

Surging  with  myriad  steeds, 
There  shall  arise 

Out  of  the  maze  of  clashing  destinies, 
Out  of  the  servitude  of  race  and  blood, 
One  flag,  one  law,  one  hope,  one  brotherhood. 


A   TROOP   OF   THE   GUARD 

HARVARD    CLASS    POEM 

THERE  's  trampling  of  hoofs  in  the  busy  street, 
There 's  clanking  of  sabres  on  floor  and  stair, 
There 's  sound  of  restless,  hurrying  feet, 
Of  voices  that  whisper,  of  lips  that  entreat, 

Will  they  live,  will  they  die,  will  they  strive,  will 

they  dare  ? 

The  houses  are  garlanded,  flags  flutter  gay, 
For  a  Troop  of  the  Guard  rides  forth  to-day. 

Oh,   the    troopers  will    ride  and  their  hearts   will 

leap, 
When   it 's   shoulder  to   shoulder  and  friend  to 

friend  — 

But  it's  some  to  the  pinnacle,  some  to  the  deep, 
And  some  in  the  glow  of  their  strength  to  sleep, 

And  for  all  it  's  a  fight  to  the  tale's  far  end. 
And  it 's  each  to  his  goal,  nor  turn  nor  sway, 
When  the  Troop  of  the  Guard  rides  forth  to-day. 

(Read  before  the  Graduating  Class   of  Harvard   College,  June  21, 
1907.) 

10 


The  dawn  is  upon  us,  the  pale  light  speeds 

To  the  zenith  with  glamour  and  golden  dart. 
On,  up !     Boot   and  saddle !    Give   spurs   to  your 

steeds ! 

There 's  a  city  beleaguered  that  cries  for  men's  deeds, 
With  the  pain  of  the  world  in  its  cavernous  heart. 
Ours  be  the  triumph!   Humanity  calls! 

Life  's  not  a  dream  in  the  clover ! 
On  to  the  walls,  on  to  the  walls, 
On  to  the  walls,  and  over! 

The  wine  is  spent,  the  tale  is  spun, 
The  revelry  of  youth  is  done. 
The  horses  prance,  the  bridles  clink, 
While  maidens  fair  in  bright  array 
With  us  the  last  sweet  goblet  drink, 
Then  bid  us  "  Mount  and  ride  away  !  " 
Into  the  dawn,  we  ride,  we  ride, 
Fellow  and  fellow,  side  by  side; 
Galloping  over  the  field  and  hilj, 
Over  the  marshland,  stalwart  still ; 
Into  the  forest's  shadowy  hush, 
Where  spectres  walk  in  sunless  day, 
i  And  in  dark  pools  and  branch  and  bush 
\  fhe  treacherous  will-o'-the-wisp  lights  play. 
Out  of  the  wood  'neath  the  risen  sun, 
Weary  we  gallop,  one  and  one, 
To  a  richer  hope  and  a  stronger  foe 
ii 


And  a  hotter  fight  in  the  fields  below  — 
Each  man  his  own  slave,  each  his  lord, 

the  golden  spurs  and  the  victor's  sword  ! 


Friends  of  the  great,  the  high,  the  perilous  years, 

Upon  the  brink  of  mighty  things  we  stand  — 

Of  golden  harvests  and  of  silver  tears, 

And  griefs  and  pleasures  that  like  grains  of  sand 

Gleam  in  the  hour-glass,  yield  their  place,  and  die. 

Like  a  dark  sea  our  lives  before  us  lie, 

And  we,  like  divers  o'er  a  pearl-strewn  deep, 

Stand  yet  an  instant  in  the  warm,  young  sun, 

Plunge,  and  are  gone, 

And  over  pearl  and  diver  the  restless  breakers  sweep. 

On  to  the  quest  !  To-day 

In  joyful  revelry  we  still  may  play 

With  the  last  golden  phantoms  of  dead  years  ; 

Hearing  above  the  stir 

The  old  protecting  music  in  our  ears 

Of  fluttering  pinions  and  the  voice  of  her, 

The  Mighty  Mother,  watching  o'er  her  sons. 

To-day  we  still  may  crouch  beneath  her  wings, 

Dreaming  of  unimagined  things  ; 

To-morrow  we  are  part 

Of  the  world's  depthless,  palpitating  heart, 

One  with  the  living,  striving  millions 

Whose  lives  beat  out  the  ceaseless,  rhythmic  song 

Of  joy  and  pain  and  peace  and  love  and  wrong. 

12 


We  may  not  dwell  on  solitary  heights. 

There  is  a  force  that  draws  men  breast  to  breast 

In  the  hot  swirl  of  never-ending  fights, 

When  man  —  enriched,  despoiled,  oppressed, 

By  the  great  titans  of  the  earth  who  hold 

The  nations  in  their  hands  as  boys  a  swallow's  nest  — 

Leaps  from  the  sodden  mass  through  loves  and  feuds 

And  tumult  of  hot  strife  and  tempest  blast, 

Until  he  stands,  free  of  the  depths  at  last, 

A  titan  in  his  turn,  to  mould 

The  pliable  clay  of  the  world's  multitudes. 

An  anxious  generation  sends  us  forth 

On  the  far  conquest  of  the  thrones  of  might. 

From  West  and  East,  from  South  and  North, 

Earth's  children,  weary-eyed  with  too  much  light. 

Cry  from  their  dream-forsaken  vales  of  pain, 

"  Give  us  our  gods,  give  us  our  gods  again  ! " 

A  lofty  and  relentless  century, 

Gazing  with  Argus  eyes, 

Has  pierced  the  very  inmost  halls  of  faith, 

And  left  no  shelter  whither  man  may  flee 

From  the  cold  storms  of  night  and  lovelessness  and 

death. 

Old  gods  have  fallen  and  the  new  must  rise ! 
Out  of  the  dust  of  doubt  and  broken  creeds, 
The  sons  of  those  who  cast  men's  idols  low 
Must  build  up  for  a  hungry  people's  needs 


New  gods,  new  hopes,  new  strength  to  toil  and 

grow  ; 

Knowing  that  nought  that  ever  lived  can  die, 
No  act,  no  dream  but  spreads  its  sails,  sublime, 
Sweeping  across  the  visible  seas  ©f  Time, 
Into  the  treasure-haven  of  eternity. 

The  portals  are  open,  the  white  road  leads 

Through  thicket  and  garden,  o'er  stone  and  sod. 
On,  up !    Boot    and  saddle !    Give  spurs  to  your 

steeds ! 

There  Js  a  city  beleaguered  that  cries  for  men's  deeds, 
For  the  faith  that  is  strength  and  the  love  that  is 

God! 
On  through  the  dawning !   Humanity  calls ! 

Life  's  not  a  dream  in  the  clover ! 
On  to  the  walls,  on  to  the  walls, 
On  to  the  walls,  and  over ! 


LINES   ON   MEMORIAL   DAY 


LIFT  up  your  hearts,  ye  people,  and  be  proud ! 

Oh,  mourn  no  more  the  fallen  in  the  fray; 

Peace  and  a  nation's  glory  wrap  their  clay, 
And  they  sleep  well  who  sleep  in  such  a  shroud. 

ii 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  people,  and  be  proud ! 

Not  of  the  dead  alone, 

Above  whose  shattered  frames  the  stone 

Records  the  glory  and  the  tears, 

The  triumph  of  tempestuous  years  — 

Not  of  the  dead  alone,  nation  of  men,  be  proud  ! 

Out  of  the  dust  of  those  who  fought  and  fell, 

Out  of  the  dreams  of  those  who  slumber  well, 

Thy  mightier  armies,  firm,  uncowed, 

Up  to  thy  fields  of  battle  crowd. 

in 

Honor  the  dead ! 

Honor  with  garlands,  honor  with  wreaths, 
Honor  with  roses,  white  and  red! 
IS 


Honor,  all  else  above, 

Honor  with  love, 

In  whose  depths  still  a  nation's  passion  seethes. 

Honor  with  songs  the  glories  that  have  been  ! 

But  more,  thrice  more, 

Honor  with  reverence  the  dreams, 

The  winged  hopes  that  madly  soar, 

The  failing  glimpses,  transitory  gleams, 

That  from  the  watch-tower  of  a  prophet's  thought 

Tell  of  the  greater  battles  still  unfought, 

The  greater  glories  still  unseen. 

IV 

Not  in  the  tale  of  stirring  fights, 
Not  in  the  triumph  song, 
That  tell  of  mighty  days  and  nights 
When  right  has  conquered  wrong; 
Not  in  men's  deeds  doth  glory  rest ! 
Only  in  vision,  pure  and  high, 
Only  in  faith,  in  spotless  zest 
And  dauntless  hope  doth  glory  lie. 


Honor  the  past,  but  honor  more  the  dreams, 
Misty  to-day,  that  are  to-morrow's  deeds  — 
Those  momentary  dim  imaginings, 
In  whose  swift  fire  the  light  of  aeons  gleams 
On  dark,  undreamt,  gigantic  things  — 
16 


Telling  strange  tales  of  peoples  and  of  kings, 

Of  growing  labors,  growing  needs; 

Of  bloodless  battles,  frantic  years 

And  Niobean  tears ; 

Strange,  sombre  songs  whose  throbbing  undertones 

Are  toiling  women's  cries,  and  strong  men's  groans. 

They  tell  of  new  rebellions  that  shall  come 

When  from  the  East,  the  West,  the  South,  the  North, 

From  Oregon,  from  Maine, 

From  Texas  and  the  blazing  plain, 

Men  shall  go  forth 

Without  the  cheer  of  flag  and  drum 

To  fall  as  erst  their  fathers  fell ; 

And  o'er  the  graves  no  stone  shall  tell 

The  mighty  cause ;  no  wreath 

Sweeten  the  slumbers  of  the  dead  beneath. 

VI 

'Honor  the  living,  honor  the  brave, 
Honor  the  strong  who  daily  fight 
'Gainst  hunger  and  a  pauper's  grave, 
In  crowded  cities,  on  the  perilous  seas, 
In  reeking,  clanging  factories, 
In  mine-shafts,  where 
From  murky  dawn  to  dusking  night 
Herculean  aliens,  Goth  and  Hun, 
Toil  in  the  prisoned  air 
And  never  see  the  sun. 

'7 


VII 

Honor  the  great,  self-risen,  to  rule  the  earth; 
Honor  the  petty,  who  can  be  but  tools ; 
Honor  the  drudges,  bound  to  office  stools ; 
Honor  the  mothers,  pining  at  a  hearth ; 
Honor  the  fallen,  dauntless  in  their  woes, 
The  mighty  host  who  will  not  quail  nor  cry  ; 
Let  the  dead  sleep  —  and  give  your  tears  for  those 
Who,  living,  struggle  and  attain  or  die. 


18 


THE   MIGHTIER   POESY 

THE  din  of  crashing  worlds  is  in  the  air. 
Stars  burst  on  stars,  the  hungry  earth  gapes  wide, 
Men  die,  things  die,  the  monarch  in  his  pride, 
The  slave  at  toil,  the  eager  priest  at  prayer, 
The  poet  crying  challenge  to  the  wind, 
Challenge  to  chaos  from  undaunted  lips  — 
They  die,  creeds  die,  dogmas  and  all  that  stood 
Rock-strong  through  time,  before  a  greater  Flood, 
A  shock,  a  silence,  and  a  dark  eclipse, 
Sink,  and  alone  upon  an  unmarked  strand 
With  burning  eyes  that  dare  not  look  behind, 
The  noble  few  survivors  stand 
To  win  with  torch  and  spear  an  unknown  mightier 
land. 

One  era  dies,  with  fearful  pangs  the  next, 
Groping  from  chaos,  feeble,  doubting,  young, 
Lisping  strange  accents  with  untutored  tongue 
That  falters  still  with  wonder,  half-perplext  — 
The  new  age  rises  from  the  hut,  the  den, 
Rayed  with  new  splendor,  to  the  thrones  of  men. 

(Read  before  the  Signet  Society  of  Harvard  College,  January  a  1 ,  1 909. ) 


And  with  the  age  new  gods,  and  with  the  gods 
New  creeds  that  soar  on  brave  and  untried  wings, 
New  dreams  that  grapple  with  titanic  things, 
Circling  with  glory  earth's  still  slumbering  clods ; 

New  tones,  new  voices  !  Hear  them  !  They  are  loud 
With  monstrous  sounds  from  wide,  unpeopled  tracts, 
Loud  with  the  roll  of  hundred  cataracts 
Bound  in  men's  service,  bound  but  yet  uncowed  !  — 

Loudest  in  cities  !  —  in  the  din  and  roar 
Of  factory  and  traffic,  in  the  chant 
Of  clashing  steel  on  steel  reverberant, 
The  shriek  of  whistles,  rush  of  cars  that  pour 

Their  hurrying  multitudes  in  turbulent  streets  — 
Where,  loud  and  clear,  new  tales  of  strife  and  gold, 
New  Iliads,  new  Odysseys  unfold, 
With   voyages   strange,  strange  triumphs,   strange 
defeats. 

New  songs,  new  songs !  I  hear  the  void  caves  fill 
With  rolling  chords  and  in  tumultuous  towns 
I  see  the  Muse  that  died  with  kings  and  crowns 
Live  in  the  blast-fires  of  an  iron-mill ! 

I  hear  her  in  the  air,  I  see  her  form 
Riding  the  passionate  whirlwind  of  great  deeds, 
zo 


Clangor  about  her  and  the  rush  of  steeds 
Sweeping  mad  riders  on  through  night  and  storm, 

Upward,  upward  !  I  see  her  in  still  places, 
Where  death  and  terror  reign  and  life  and  love, 
Where  joy  and  anguish  mark  the  upturned  faces, 
There,  there,  I  see  her  move. 

I  see  her  in  the  citadels  of  trade 

Where  armies  strive  with  armies ;  hot  and  long 

The  fight  endures,  while  arms  and  hands  grow  faint, 

Hearts  that  were  strong 

Falter  before  the  fire,  heads  cringe  beneath  the  blade, 

And  heroes  without  fear  or  taint 

Lead  on  their  soldiery  from  field  to  field 

To  win  or  lose,  but  never  yield. 

Among  those  fighters  —  struggling  as  of  old 

Trojan  and  Greek  fought  on  the  sandy  plain, 

Struggling  with  heart  and  brain, 

Arms  and  their  shield,  a  word ; 

Men  of  a  sterner  mould 

Than  ancient  hosts  who  fought  with  javelin  and 

sword  — 

There,  by  that  sea  whose  curling  waves  are  gold, 
Do  you  not  hear  the  Muse  that  bent  to  Homer's 

will 
Crying  that  still  strife  lives,  that  men  are  heroes 

still  ? 

21 


I  see  her  in  the  streets,  where  through  long  days 
Besieging  hosts  clamor  at  brazen  gates. 
In  terror-stricken  rout 
Nerve-racked  as  in  a  maze, 
With  timid  heart  and  angry  shout 
Encamped  they  lie  about  the  massive  walls ; 
And  through  the  days  within  the  marble  halls 
The  strong-willed  moulders  of  men's  little  fates 
Fight  for  their  own  hearths  and  their  foes'  the  bat- 
tle with  the  wraith 

Of  panic   in  the   cringing  souls  of  men  of  little 
faith. 

Ah,  mighty  Muse,  again  I  hear  thy  song, 

Again  I  feel  hot  in  my  heart  thy  measure,  loud  and 

strong, 

Again  I  see  thee  —  in  the  night 
Winged  above  the  place,  where  from  the  far 
And  steel-bound  distances,  with  shrieking  cries, 
The  dragons,  many-limbed,  with  flaming  eyes, 
As  on  some  conjurer's  business,  to  and  fro, 
Through  the  great  road-yard  sweeping  go. 
Back  from  the  funnel,  star  on  golden  star 
Flings  to  the  dusk  its  glamour ;  thick  and  white 
The  smoke-clouds  roll. 
And  in  the  engine's  brain 
Where  human  hands  hold  in  control 
The  splendid  onward  flight 
22 


Of  this  strong  thing  of  steel  and  fire  that  half  is  goc* 

and  soul, 

The  grimy  firemen  toil  and  sweat  and  strain, 
Hour  by  hour 

Holding  undimmed  the  monster's  power. 
Do  you  not  hear  the  Muse's  fluttering  wings 
In  the  hot  piston's  throb,  the  whistle's  wails, 
The  rumble  and  the  thunderings 
Of  freighted  cars  on  gleaming  rails  ? 
Lo,  do  you  see  her  not  by  saving  lights  that  gleam 
From  smoky  bridges,  turrets  gray, 
Marking  of  many  ways,  the  way  ? 
The  signal  lamps  I  The  white  and  now  the  red 
And  now  the  white  again  !  — 
As  strange  and  causeless-seeming  as  a  dream  ! 
Yet,   oh,   the    mighty    faith    that    to    one    human 

head, 

Alert  upon  the  central  tower, 
Gives  o'er  the  lives  of  hundred  thousand  men ! 

I  hear  the  factories  throbbing,  I  see  the   furnace 

a-light, 
Flaunting  the  new  time's  glory  in  the  face  of  the 

welcoming  night ; 
I  see  the  hand  of  the  master  and  loud  from  torrent 

and  fen 
I  hear  the  moans  of  titans  made  slaves  to  the  will 

of  men. 


Down  to  the  dust  the  withered,  up  from  the  dust 

the  young ! 

Crying  for  hearts  to  uphold  them,  crying  for  sabre 
and  tongue ; 

Soldiers  to  right  old  wrongs, 
Singers  to  sing  new  songs  — 

Songs  that  are  half  of  the  whirlwind  and  half  of  the 
great  calm's  birth ! 

Songs  of  the  brave,  the  wise, 
Songs  of  the  gold,  the  lies, 

Songs  of  the  Spirit  of  Man  crushing  the  Spirit  of 
Earth ! 


PART   II 


SONG 

SONG  is  so  old, 
Love  is  so  new  — 
Let  me  be  still 
And  kneel  to  you. 

Let  me  be  stil\ 
And  breathe  no  word, 
Save  what  my  warm  blood 
Sings  unheard. 

Let  my  warm  blood 
Sing  low  of  you  — 
Song  is  so  fair, 
Love  is  so  new  ! 


27 


THE   WORSHIPERS 

A  SHRINE  stood  in  the  forest 

And  we  two  knelt  and  prayed  — 

You  to  the  kindly  Master, 
I  to  the  hill  and  glade. 

Ah,  humbly  you  prayed  for  the  virtue 
God  gave  as  a  crown  at  your  birth ; 

You  pleaded  for  grace  and  the  spirit  — 
And  I  for  the  gifts  of  earth ; 

For  the  comforting  arms  of  Nature, 
For  the  flash  of  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

For  the  cold,  white  promise  of  winter 
And  the  warm  fulfillment  of  spring ; 

For  the  whole  great  circle  of  marvels 
With  me  as  a  link  in  the  chain ! 

You  prayed  to  the  king  of  your  silence, 
And  I  to  the  wind  and  rain.  — 

Your  hand  touched  mine  and  I  held  it, 
And  the  spirit  cried  low  in  the  clod ; 

We  kissed — and  forgot  our  pleadings, 
And  Nature  and  shrine  and  God. 
28 


REBELS 

You  and  I  and  the  hills ! 

Do  you  think  we  could  live  for  a  day, 
With  the  useless,  wearying  wrongs  and  ills 

And  the  cherished  cares  away  ? 
Rebels  of  progress  and  our  clay  — 
Do  you  think  we  could  live  for  a  day  ? 

You  and  I  and  the  dawn, 

With  the  great  light  breaking  through, 
And  the  woods  astir  with  a  wakened  fawn, 

And  our  own  hearts  wakened,  too ; 
With  the  bud  in  the  hollow,  the  bird  on  the  spray, 
Do  you  think  we  could  live  for  a  day  ? 

You  and  I  and  the  dusk, 

With  the  first  stars  in  the  glow  — 
And  the  faith  that  our  ills  are  but  the  husk 

With  the  kernel  of  life  below ; 
With  the  joy  of  the  hills  and  the  throb  of  the  May, 
Do  you  think  we  could  live  for  a  day  ? 


SONG   AT   MIDNIGHT 

THE  moon  was  so  clear  to-night, 

Who  would  have  thought  that  the  wind 

Could  draw  such  mists  across  the  light, 
With  the  storms  behind, 
To-night  ? 

So  strong  was  your  heart,  my  sweet, 
Who  would  have  thought  that  I 

Had  power  to  crush  it  under  my  feet, 
Nor  heed  your  cry, 
My  sweet  ? 


30 


SONG   IN   DARKNESS 

LEAVE  me  not  now,  O  love,  leave  me  not  now ! 

You  that  have  wandered  with  me  through  the  night, 

Leave  me  not  now ! 

In  the  deep  valley  lies  the  dawning  light, 

And  on  your  brow 

The  shadows  pale  before  our  one  great  love  — . 

Leave  me  not  now  ! 

Leave  me  not  now,  O  love  —  the  night  is  done ; 

The  stars  that  watched  so  silently  above 

Our  vale  of  trouble  quiver  from  our  sight. 

Day  has  begun  — 

Ah,  sweet,  leave  me  not  now ! 

Take  not  from  me  the  pale,  white  joy  upon  your 

brow ! 

Love  has  not  died,  I  know  love  has  not  died ; 
And  must  we  watch,  alone  and  weary-eyed, 
For  tumult  and  the  night 
To  bring  our  souls  together  in  our  love  ? 


A   PARTING 


LIKE  watchers  by  the  weary  bed 

Of  one  to  whom  death  brings  surcease 

Of  lingering  anguish  and  for  suffering  peace  — 

When  at  the  last  the  eyes,  seeming  to  sleep,  are  dead  — 

We  two  watched  pass  the  dying  year. 

The  room  wherein  we  sat  was  dimly  lit  and  drear; 

Only  the  grate  gave  out  a  glow 

From  ashes  brown,  vermilion-veined, 

And  half  burnt  coals  that  flickered  low. 

Before  the  paling  fire  we  crouched, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  as  of  old 

Beside  the  sea  in  happy  idle  Junes, 

'Neath  cloudless  canopies  of  azure,  couched 

By  sloping  sands  and  overhanging  dunes, 

We  watched  the  tumbled  breakers  that  up  the  steep 

beach  strained. 

In  the  far  town  the  church  bells  tolled, 
And  in  the  streets  we  knew  that  men  were  full  of 

cheer, 

Shouting  and  glad,  crying  to  far  and  near : 
"  Happy  New  Year !  " 

32 


She  trembled.  In  my  hand  I  took 
Her  hand,  that  unresisting  shook. 
"  Happy  New  Year  !  "  we  said, 
Even  though  we  knew  that  happiness  was  dead. 
She  turned  to  me.   Her  cheeks  were  stained 
With  tears  she  could  not  quite  repel, 
Though  in  her  fair  blue  eyes  a  light, 
Flashing  as  when  the  blue-winged  pigeon  turns 
Wheeling  in  flight, 
Told  she  had  fought  them  well. 
She  spoke.  "  No  more  the  glory  burns, 
The  dream  has  waned. 
Come,  let  us  part  ere  all  the  glamour  dies." 
Hervoice  was  lowandstrong  ;  I  could  not  see  her  eyes, 
For  shadowed  were  my  own.  Like  thief, 
Or  murderer  condemned  to  lifelong  prisonment 
I  gazed  upon  my  handiwork,  her  grief, 
And  to  her  verdict  nodded  dumb  consent. 
"  The  dream  has  waned,  yet  it  was  fair,"  she  said. 
"  There  have  been  tears,  but  there  was  laughter  once, 
And  care-free  joy 

As  none  on  earth  can  find  but  only  girl  and  boy, 
Knowing  not  loss  nor  pain  nor  dread 
On  their  oasis  in  the  windy  waste 
Of  the  encircling  fear-bent  millions. 
Now  we  must  part.   Good  friend,  do  not  rebel. 
The  splendor  of  the  vision  is  effaced, 
The  halo  of  our  fearlessness  is  gone. 
33 


Let  us  that  knew  the  sun 

Not  be  content  in  twilight  dim  to  dwell. 

We  cannot  blame  each  other  nor  our  God. 

The  mocking,  perilous  world  wherein  secure  we 

trod 

Has  at  the  first  sign  of  our  fainting  hearts, 
Our  faltering  feet,  our  wavering  eyes, 
Choked  in  its  coils  our  paradise. 
We  should  have  trusted  more  in  God  and  in  each 

other. 

Now  all  our  weak  attempts,  our  anxious  arts 
Are  impotent  before  the  doubts  that  chill  and  quench 

and  smother." 

She  paused,  and  rising,  stood 
A  while  against  the  mantel,  gazing  deep 
Into  the  ashes'  crevices  that  glowed. 
Upon  her  face  I  saw  the  womanhood 
New-risen,  stand  — 
A  dismal  conqueror  of  a  wasted  land, 
Gazing  from  lofty  summits  o'er  the  sweep 
Of  hard-won  kingdoms,  counting  high  the  cost 
By  which  a  host  to  victory  rode, 
Since  all  but  pride  was  lost. 
Her  lips  were  pale,  yet  even  now  they  smiled 
As  wearily  she  turned  to  me  her  face. 
"  Not  by  indifference  our  love  shall  be  defiled, 
Nor  shall  the  heart's  new  tide  erase 
34 


Before  our  eyes  love's  symbols  on  the  sands. 

To-morrow  you  must  go." 

And  still  she  smiled,  as  though 

To  tell  me  that  a  day's  quick  smart 

Would  heal  her  heart. 

I  took  in  mine  her  hands. 

A  moment  all  the  tumult  of  the  days 

When  first  we  loved  by  the  white  stormy  sea 

Flamed  up  in  me, 

A  mighty  blaze, 

That  leaping  from  my  lips  encircled  us 

With  fire  that  burned   the  world  and  burned  the 

doubt,  the  pain, 

And  gave  us  all  our  love  and  all  our  faith  again. 
And  for  a  flash  I  held  her  thus. 
I  cried  :  u  Now  are  you  mine  at  last ! 
The  anger  and  the  doubt  are  past, 
The  long  uncertainty  is  done 
And  dead  the  sorrows,  every  one. 
Together  let  us  go  our  way  — 
With  this  new  year  shall  life  begin  — 
Together  let  us  face  the  fray, 
Together  battle,  strive  and  win. 
Give  me  your  lips,  my  sweet,  my  sweet ! 
Over  the  hills  the  clouds  are  fled  —  " 
u  True  love  is  long,  but  passion  fleet, 
Nay,  you  must  go,"  she  faintly  said. 
Swift  from  my  arms  she  fled  away. 
35 


"  To-morrow  you  must  go  —  nay,  it  is  late — to-day. 
Go  out  to  labor  and  to  fight, 
Both  have  we  lessons  hard  to  learn. 
In  the  far  years,  return  ! 

Blame  not  yourself  nor  me  —  the  clock  strikes  one  — 
good-night." 

The  year's  first  morning  all  in  splendor  lay ; 

Cloudless  the  sky,  frosty  and  clear  the  air 

As  though  a  god  had  swept  the  soiled  world  bare 

Of  last  year's  imperfections  and  decay. 

Soft  and  untrammeled  lay  the  snow. 

Now  must  I  go. 

Into  the  clear  white  day  we  went. 

The  sleigh  bells  tinkled  in  the  street ; 

Under  our  feet 

The  smooth  snow  crunched ;  and  overhead 

The  sparkling  branches,  sighing,  bent. 

Of  idle  things  we  spoke  — 

How  fair  the  elm,  how  straight  the  oak, 

How  blue  the  sky  above  the  snow. 

Yet  ever,  ever  in  each  word 

In  every  tinkling  bell  I  heard 

The  chill  refrain,  u  Now  you  must  go." 

Thus  to  the  open  road  we  came. 

Behind,  the  village  lay  ;  before, 

The  great  world  without  end  or  aim, 

Aged  and  dreamless,  stark  and  hoar. 

36 


And  then  we  parted ;  in  the  friendly  press 
Of  hand  in  hand,  the  smile,  the  parting  wave 
Across   the   widening   breach,  what   passer   could 

have  told 

That  here  lay  anguish  and  distress ; 
And  in  the  smile's  half-willed  caress 
Who  would  have  dreamt  the  pain  it  gave  ? 
I  went,  and  drew  my  cloak  close  round  me  for  the 

cold. 

ii 

And  now  lies  silence  on  the  world 

With  all  its  joys  in  shadow  furled. 

The  ringing  song  of  life  is  hushed. 

Out  of  the  tumult  of  the  street, 

The  cries  of  triumph,  of  defeat, 

Out  of  the  moan  of  spirits  crushed, 

Only  the  noisy  wings  of  wrong 

Flapping  about  men's  hearts  I  hear, 

Only  the  discord,  shrill  and  clear, 

Never,  O  God,  the  song. 

Never  the  hope-filled  heart  leaps  high, 

The  dreams  untrammeled  seek  their  goal  — 

Black,  stricken  shapes  the  visions  lie 

In  my  besieged  soul. 

Almighty  God,  let  me  not  chide ! 

Not  to  my  heart  has  glory  been  denied, 

37 


Not  to  my  breast  the  breast  nor  to  my  lips  the  kiss. 

These  arms  have  held  a  universe  enchained, 

These  wayward  feet, 

Now  faltering  above  the  dark  abyss, 

Have  trod  in  splendor,  young  and  sweet. 

What  though  the  dream,  the  golden  dream,  hath 

waned  ? 

Life  gave  its  best.  Nay,  God,  I  will  not  chide. 
The  world  is  open.  Let  me  go 
Into  the  world  and  run  my  race, 
And  though  the  heavy  feet  be  slow, 
Lord,  let  me  gain  my  place. 
What  though,  within,  the  early  hopes  lie  broken  ? 
Into  the  midst  of  life  with  eager  heart, 
Through  joy  a  prophet,  I  depart, 
For  unto  me  the  Lord  hath  spoken. 


FORGIVENESS 

FORGIVE  me  that  I  could  not  understand 
The  peerless  wonder  and  the  magnitude 
Of  thy  great  soul.  Forgive  me  that  imbued 
With  all  youth's  confidence,  I  let  the  hand, 

That  held  to  mine  as  to  a  promised  land, 

Droop  and  grow  chill.  I  loved  thee,  yet  I  viewed 
With  eager  heart  the  phantoms  that  elude  — 
Fame,  life  —  forgive,  I  could  not  understand. 

Thou  wilt  forgive  the  anguish  and  the  tears, 
And  worse  than  tears,  the  arid  tearlessness, 
When  Time  turns  round  each  grain  of  the  shift- 
ing sand ; 

Thou  wilt  forgive  the  silent,  empty  years  — 

Yet  one  thought  from  the  waste  will  chafe  no 

less; 
u  In  my  dark  hour —  he  did  not  understand." 


39 


LINES   TO   A   DOG 

TRUE  of  heart  and  black  of  hair, 
Faithful  were  you,  my  Dagobert ! 
A  friend  to  me  when  first  I  came 
Unknown  of  face,  unknown  of  name, 
And  entered  in  your  lady's  heart 
With  loving  lips  and  poisoned  dart. 

I  loved  you  for  the  small,  white  hands 
That  played  amid  your  ebon  strands. 
I  loved  you  for  the  face  that  bent 
Unto  your  face  in  soft  content 
With  murmured,  "  Ah,  such  love  is  rare 
As  that  I  hold,  my  Dagobert !  " 
You  saw  us  erst  beside  the  sea 
When  first  her  fair  eyes  looked  on  me. 
The  twilight  dimmed,  the  calm  sea's  moan 
Sang  low  in  ceaseless  monotone, 
While  you  strove  with  the  languid  tide 
And  I  with  love  and  she  with  pride. 

Old  Dagobert,  the  seas  will  climb 
Up  those  gray  shores  till  end  of  time, 
40 


But  you  are  dead,  and  she  and  I 
Are  parted  as  the  land  and  sky. 
Blind  children  !  who,  when  passion's  thirst 
Is  dry,  and  passion's  bubbles  burst, 
Must  beat  at  love's  time-braided  chain 
And  rend  each  silken  bond  in  twain  ! 
Oh,  rare  is  friendship,  yet  how  soon 
We  cast  it  from  us,  when  the  boon 
Is  less  than  all  that  dreams  desire  — 
Soft  warmth,  but  not  a  passion's  fire. 

Old  Dagobert,  your  house  is  chill, 

While  mine  hath  warmth  and  friendship  still, 

But  you  at  least  have  in  your  ears 

The  voice  that  soothed  you  through  the  years, 

Her  touch  upon  your  poor,  black  head  — 

For  me  the  voice,  the  hands  are  dead. 

Man  knows  not  where  your  house  may  be  — 

In  dust  or  in  Eternity  ?  — 

Man  knows  not,  and  you  little  care, 

Tet  —  God  be  with  you,  Dagobert ! 


"WHERE   E'ER   MY   WAYS    GO" 

WHERE  e'er  my  ways  go, 

Love,  there  are  you  — 
In  cloud  and  starry  night 

And  morning  dew. 

On  the  sea's  horizon 

And  windy  space, 
At  the  valley's  end,  always, 

Your  face,  your  face  ! 

In  calm  and  tempest 

And  morning  dew, 
Through  death  and  forever, 

Love,  there  are  you ! 


TO   A   LARK   OF   THEBES 

OH,  lark  upon  the  fallow  fields, 
What  make  you  here  so  far  from  home, 
'Mid  temple,  tomb,  and  obelisk  — 
What  make  you  here  ? 

Dark  grandeur  lies  upon  the  hills, 
And  darker  silence  'neath  their  crest 
Where  ancient  emperors  lie  mute  — 
What  make  you  here  ? 

What  care  you  for  the  ancient  days, 
The  south' s  unchecked,  impetuous  glow  ? 
Yours  is  the  quiet  upland  wood  — 
What  make  you  here? 

We  two  are  aliens  far  from  home. 
Oh,  bird,  could  we  but  turn  our  flight 
Back  to  our  own  unfamed  fields, 
Back  to  our  joy  ! 


43 


THE   GLORIOUS   BONDAGE 

IN  vain  I  shake  love's  bondage  free, 
In  vain  I  speed  from  land  to  land, 

A  thousand  tongues  cry  out  to  me 

From  town  and  peak  and  desert  sand : 

"  Ye  two  are  fettered  by  a  tie 

That  shall  not  rust  and  cannot  die." 

Of  tenderest  weaving  are  the  threads, 
Bound  round  our  hearts  a  thousand-fold, 

Of  common  joys  and  hopes  and  dreads 
And  apple-boughs  and  sunset-gold  — 

The  memories  that  sob  and  cry 

Against  our  hearts  and  will  not  die. 

Forerer  is  the  sea  a  bond, 

Its  every  wave  hath  laugh  and  tear, 
That  bfc«r  me  from  to-day  beyond 

The  encircling  world  to  yester-year. 
And  still  the  dune-wind  moans  and  sighs 
With  memories,  with  memories. 

The  myriad  voices  of  the  spring, 

The  summer's  warm,  exuberant  mirth, 

44 


The  creeping  autumn-frosts  that  fling 
Their  scarlet  mantle  o'er  the  earth, 
Wild  winter,  bleak  and  riotous  — 
Are  each  a  woven  part  of  us. 

Withal,  shall  still  our  hearts  resist  ? 

What  is  there  that  we  blindly  fear  ? 
About  us  darkly  wreathes  the  mist, 

But,  ah,  beyond,  the  skies  are  clear ! 
Yea,  in  the  Maker's  infinite  scroll 
Our  lives  are  woven,  soul  in  soul. 


THE  AWAKENING 

OUT  of  the  dark  your  face  returns, 
Out  of  the  night  my  hands  aspire, 

Up  to  the  starry  heaven  burns 

Once  more,  once  more,  the  old  love's  fire. 

Out  of  the  silence  comes  your  voice 
With  the  old  lost  tones  I  loved  so  well, 

And  the  buried  songs  of  my  heart  rejoice 
At  the  kindred  notes  that  rise  and  swell. 

Give  me  your  love  again,  give  me  all, 

Give  me  your  heart's  each  throb  and  beat ! 

From  the  seats  of  the  scornful,  lo,  I  fall 
A  subject,  humbly  at  your  feet. 

I  have  gone,  a  vagabond  o'er  the  earth, 

I  have  sought,  I  have  searched  on  land  and  sea 

But,  oh,  the  heart  that  gave  love's  birth, 
Is  the  heart  that  holds  love's  best  for  me. 


RETURN 

I  DREAMT  last  night  that  I  had  crossed  the  seas ; 

And  in  a  valley  where  the  fresh  earth  sprang 

In  the  year's  youth  with  pale  anemones, 

And  all  the  boughs, 

Drunk  with  the  new-pressed  wine  of  life,  stood 

flushed 

In  riotous  carouse 

Of  blossom-time  and  May,  I  found  your  house. 
With  eager  steps  I  went. 
Strange  was  the  place  and  hushed; 
No  bird  sang  in  the  boughs,  no  breeze  the  whole 

day  long ; 

Yet  in  the  very  silence  was  a  song. 
"  And  here  she  dwells,"  said  I,  "  and  here  I  find 

content." 

With  eager  steps  I  went 

Through  all  the  sweet,  intoxicating  lure  of  spring. 
Never,  ah  never,  was  clay  more  kin  to  soul ! 
About  me  in  the  air  was  murmuring 
Of  new-born  voices,  at  my  feet  the  sod 
Cried  in  its  new  strength,  joyous  with  new  mirth ; 
Between  the  blue  sky  and  the  green,  green  earth, 
47 


A  white  veil  like  a  radiant  aureole, 

Born  of  the  blossoms,  hung,  to  man  the  sign 

That  even  clay  can  be  divine 

And  that  the  earth  is  God. 

And  so  I  came  unto  your  gate. 

Behind  the  curtained  window,  was  it  you 

I  saw  an  instant,  as  with  beating  heart  elate 

I  sped  your  garden  through  ? 

I  do  not  know,  for  I  have  felt  your  glance 

In  the  still  desert  when  the  camel's  tread 

Grew  languid  with  the  heat,  and  in  my  eyes 

Bright,  blinding  figures  leaped  in  flaming  dance 

Like  river-flies, 

A  dance  of  living  dreams  and  dreams  that  long  were 

dead. 

Behind  that  window-pane, 
Darkly  and  fleet, 
Seen,  to  be  lost  again  — 
So  was  it  in  the  desert  and  the  heat. 
Ah,  but  not  now  the  sinking  of  the  heart ! 
I  stood  within  the  door.  Ah,  not  a  jest 
Of  desert  heat  was  this. 
Lithe  as  of  old   your   form,   fair  as   of  old  your 

face !  — 

Only  the  room's  width  now  to  part  — 
You  sped  across  the  narrow  space  — 
Was  this  a  dream  ? 

Once  more  I  held  you  —  breast  to  breast 
48 


A  rapturous  instant  —  and  above  the  gleam 
Of  bloom  and  spring  a  mightier  glory  shone 
As  our  two  hearts  sang  unison 
And  our  shut  lives  sprang  open  in  a  kiss. 


49 


SONGS   FROM   THE   ROCKIES 


"  INTO    THE    WILDERNESS,    COME !  " 

INTO  the  wilderness,  come  ! 
Here  where  the  wild  bees  hum. 

The  aspen  leaves  quiver, 

Now  darkly,  now  bright, 

The  willow-dim  river 

Sings  loud  with  delight, 
Birds  are  a-singing  and  voices  are  dumb 
Into  the  wilderness,  come! 

ii 

REVEILLE 

The  wild  horse  prances  down  the  glen, 
The  cowbell  tinkles,  clucks  the  hen, 
The  mother-pig  grunts  to  her  ten : 
"  Get  up,  you  lazy  fools  I  " 

The  sun  upon  the  tent-roof  glows 
And  still  we  sluggards  doze  and  doze, 
The  rooster  in  the  barnyard  crows : 
"  Get  up,  you  lazy  fools  1 " 


Ill 

"  DID    YOU    SEE    ME    COMING,    LOVE  ?  " 

Did  you  see  me  coming,  love, 
Down  the  hills  to  you  ? 

Bees  were  all  a-humming,  love, 
Starry  lay  the  dew. 

In  the  canyon's  hushes 
Motion  was  there  none, 

Only  in  the  bushes 
Mute  the  spider  spun. 

Song  was  in  the  branches, 

Gently  oozed  the  sap, 
Peaceful  lay  the  ranches 

In  the  valley's  lap. 

Oh,  my  heart  was  drumming,  love ! 

If  you  only  knew  ! 
Did  you  see  me  coming,  love, 

Down  the  hills  to  you  ? 

IV 
THE    LEAVEN    OF    TWILIGHT 

So  ends  a  day's  immortal  story, 
At  eve  to  God,  returning,  sent ; 

On  every  mountain-top  is  glory 
And  every  valley  breathes  content. 


Now  break  the  twinkling  hosts  of  heaven, 
Like  daffodils,  the  purple  plain.  — 

What  if  the  noon  be  grim  ?    The  leaven 
Of  day's  sweet  end  is  cure  for  pain. 

Fear  not !   Beneath  the  earth's  mailed  bosom 
A  kindly  heart  throbs,  baffling  wrong ; 

That  stirs  the  bough  to  rapturous  blossom 
And  lulls  the  tempest  into  song ! 

What  though  the  failing  visions  cheat  us, 
The  stony  highway  halt  our  gait  — 

I  know  that  nothing  can  defeat  us 
If  we  but  love  and  serve  and  wait. 


DAY'S  END 

Now  the  day 
Slips  away. 
Through  the  valley  see  him  go, 

Down  the  canyon,  soft  of  tread, 
Up  the  mountain,  o'er  the  snow  — — 

Now  he 's  gone  and  dead. 
Whither  hath  he  fled  ? 

Who  shall  know  ? 
Stars  shine  in  his  stead 
And  the  new  moon  low, 
52 


Moon  in  mask  and  domino 

Trundles  to  his  western  bed. 
Midnight !   Heigh-ho ! 

Snuff  the  light. 

Love,  good-night ! 

VI 
NIGHT    RIDE 

Home  from  the  glen  through  the  gathering  night, 

Home  'neath  a  purpling  sky, 
Home  to  our  tent  in  the  first  star's  light, 

We  ride,  my  sweetheart  and  I. 

The  shadows  are  long,  the  spruces  are  black, 
The  sage-brush  is  misty  and  gray  — 

And  dreamy  and  dim  are  the  hills  at  our  back 
In  the  last  pink  glow  of  the  day. 

There 's   a    ford   to   cross   where  the  stream  runs 
swift  — 

To  stirrup  and  bridle  it  leaps  ! 
Now  up  the  sharp  bank  with  a  galloping  lift 

And  into  the  canyon's  deeps  ! 

The  wind  's  in  the  branches,  the  dark  shadows  glide  ! 

Old  Night  is  astir  with  his  tricks ; 
And  the  aspens  stand  pale  by  the  stream  at  your  side 

As  an  army  of  ghosts  by  the  Styx. 
53 


Now  the  moon's  pale  eye  o'er  the  mountain's  peak 

Stares  like  a  startled  owl, 
And  wild  on  the  wild  slopes,  gray  and  bleak, 

Answers  the  coyote's  howl. 

Ride,  ride,  oh   my   dearest !  The  night   foes   may 

throng 

And  gibber  enchantments  from  crevice  and  pine  — 
But  hush   that   loud  heart!  Love  is   sure,  love   is 

strong. 

No  spectres  shall  harm.  You  are  mine,  you  are 
mine! 


PART   HI 


MIDNIGHT  IN   EUROPE,  TWILIGHT 

IN   NEW   YORK 

THE  Old  World  sleeps. 

Over  the  wall  of  sea,  dusky  and  wild  — 

Where  the  great  tempest  sweeps 

Untrammeled,  as  a  god  that  leaps 

Forward  to  kiss  the  laughing  wave,  his  love  — 

The  New  World,  like  a  sleepy  child 

Whose  small  diurnal  round  is  run, 

Turns,  too,  her  fair  face  from  the  sun. 

The  Old  World  sleeps,  and  in  the  dome  above 
The  midnight  constellations  gleam 
Over  the  shadowy  shores,  over  the  silent  stream. 
The  mighty  river  dumbly  flows. 
By  friendly  wharves,  the  vessels  dark, 
Save  one  dim  spark 
That  high  upon  the  masthead  glows, 
In  spectral  solitude  repose. 

The  red-roofed  thorps,  'neath  linden-bough  and  oak, 
Clustered  like  berries  in  their  leafy  cloak 
Dim  at  the  foot  of  some  north-warding  hill, 
Sleep  in  a  dreamless  slumber  and  are  still. 
57 


Over  the  breathing  fields  the  wooded  knolls 

Kindly  as  some  old  nurse  keep  zealous  guard. 

No  light  nor  sound  —  only  at  intervals 

A  fettered  comet,  many-starred, 

That  on  its  steely  path  through  the  still  country  rolls 

With  distant  thunder  and  the  whistle's  calls. 

The  Old  World  sleeps. 

Dim  storied  cities  indolent 

With  dreams  and  placid  self-content  5 

Where  even  Time  her  hasting  wings 

Folds,  and  with  generous  hand  o'er  spire  and  wall, 

O'er  crooked   street   and  dingy   court   and  empty 

manor-hall 

Her  sweetest  gift,  her  veil  of  mystery  flings  5 
Cities,  where  jarring  progress  creeps 
And  wise  professors  still  prefer 
Nodding  o'er  mouldy  texts  with  two  or  three 
Than  in  the  outer  world's  unresting  stir 
To  wring  from  multitudes  an  immortality : 
Mute  by  their  turgid  streams  the  dreaming  cities  lie. 
Scarcely  the  tired  night-watch  their  vigil  keep ; 
No  voice,  no  step,  disturbs  their  round, 
Only  a  brawler  lurching,  homeward  bound, 
Then  silence  once  again  —  the  moon's  pale  light  — « 

and  sleep. 

But  in  gigantic  capitals  the  night 

Brings  not  the  silence  and  the  well-earned  rest. 

58 


Garish  above  them  hangs  the  light 

Mirrored  from  thoroughfares  and  wide  cafes 

And  dazzling  signboards  hanging  in  mid-air 

That  undulating  blaze. 

An  indistinguishable  hum 

Of  many  voices  fills  the  street, 

Where  the  defiled, 

The  idle,  painted,  overdressed, 

The  innocent,  the  fond  beguiled, 

The  Jew,  the  Gentile,  on  a  level  meet, 

And  prince  and  pauper's  child, 

In  Night's  delirium. 

In  restaurants  the  tired  musicians  play 

Through  the  long  night  again  and  yet  again 

The  numbing  strain 

Of  some  light  waltz  that  has  its  day. 

The  women  chatter  as  they  go  in  pairs, 

Or  at  the  corners  singly  stand  and  watch 

The  endless  press 

Of  petty  clerks,  of  millionaires, 

Of  pallid  youths  whose  tale  is  told  at  twenty, 

Of  idle  lookers-on  at  life  who  gaze  but  never  guess 

That  underneath  the  very  wickedness 

Is  anguish,  dread,  and  loneliness  a-plenty; 

That  underneath  the  habit  of  desire 

Lives  something  higher 

Than  passing  cynic  eyes  may  catch  — 

59 


A  gleam  of  God  beneath  the  scars, 
A  flickering,  aching  longing  for  the  stars. 
Yet,  once  again  the  whirlpool  drags  the  forms 
Onward  and  downward  to  the  crags  and  storms. 

Midnight    and    dusk — the    New    World    goes  to 

rest. 

Midnight  is  here,  but  over-seas  the  day 
Still  hangs  upon  her  mother's  breast 
An  instant  while  the  sunbeams  play 
On  churches'  glimmering  vanes, 
And  higher  yet  and  higher 
Burst  to  fire 

Coppern  and  golden  on  the  window-panes 
Of  slender  buildings  towering  o'er  the  bay. 
Even  in  the  great  metropolis,  the  May 
Has  entered  now  in  girlish  loveliness. 
In  the  dark  churchyard  where  the  dead 
Sleep  undisturbed  in  the  engirding  press 
Of  titan  warfare  and  the  meaner  stress 
Of  broods  that  daily  battle  for  their  bread  — 
The  elms  rise  up  out  of  the  desert's  core 
And  brightly  clothe  their  naked  boughs  once  more. 
Over  the  graves  the  young  grass  springs, 
The  robins  hop  from  mound  to  mound, 
And  now  the  twilight  brings 

An  end  to  whir  of  feet  and  clanging  traffic's  sound. 
From  every  portal  streams  the  eager  horde  — 
60 


Old  men  and  young,  women  as  strong  as  they, 

Courageous  as  the  Amazons  in  fray, 

Counting  no  man  their  lord; 

But  playing  each  and  each  her  part : 

Honor  to  them  !  for  they  are  strong  of  heart. 

Out  of  the  gates,  women  and  men  and  boys, 
Homeward  they  go  out  of  the  battle's  moil  — 
Vigorous,  free,  bred  at  their  birth  to  toil, 
Toil  in  their  eyes,  and  in  their  ears  the  noise 
Like  a  sweet  music,  of  the  city's  life, 
Stirring  their  youth  to  strife. 

And  now  the  mighty  buildings  sleep. 

Like    insects   through    the    gorge  -  like    streets,  in 

clouds 

To  north,  to  east,  to  west  the  thousands  sweep. 
The  river-boats  are  black  with  crowds. 
See,  how  they  dot  the  slanting  bridge  and  pass 
Into  the  lighted  cabins,  how  they  mass 
On  the  wide  decks,  shoulder  to  shoulder  stand 
While  the  chains  rattle  and  the  quick  gong  sounds. 
Out  of  the  dock's  great  open  jaws,  the  boat 
Moves  to  the  farther  strand. 
A  city's  population  is  afloat, 
Passing  at  twilight  from  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  its  captivity  —  but  to  go  back 
Upon  the  morrow  to  the  wheel  and  rack. 
61 


Like  ghosts  that  melt  before  the  sun 

The  city's  toilers,  when  the  day 

Nods  to  the  night  and  work  is  done, 

Into  the  twilight  fade  away. 

The  peopled  towers  and  the  populous  streets 

Deserted  lie  as  though  an  age  had  passed 

Since  man  had  last 

Marked  them  with  triumphs  and  defeats. 

Dark  silence  and  the  memory  of  woe 

Hold  concourse  in  that  place,  and  chill  and  low 

Run  whispers  of  man's  hunger  and  man's  greed, 

His  sorry  crowns,  his  bitter  wounds  that  bleed, 

And  ghosts  are  there,  huge  shapes  and  things  that 

move. 
But   not  in   street  or  by-street,  not  in   the  towers 

above 
That  one  face  undisfigured,  the  face  of  kindly  love. 

The  Old  World  sleeps,  and  over-seas 

The  New  World  lays  her  tools  aside. 

Ok,  weary  souls,  the  day's  large  gates  stand  wide. 

Night  murmurs  welcome,  night  the  friendly-eyed^ 

Night  shall  appease! 

Children  of  two  worlds  —  rest  at  ease. 


62 


BATTLE   SONG   OF   THE   HOPEFUL 

OUT  of  the  dark  where  the  dumb,  the  unguerdoned, 
Watch  o'er  their  anguish  and  nurture  their  woe  — - 

We  who  are  hopeful,  though  never  so  burdened, 
Forward  undaunted,  unswerving  we  go ! 

We  trust,  oh,  we  trust !  And  the  great  sun  's  above 

us ! 
Not  yet  shall  they  have  us,  the  poorhouse,  the 

grave. 
For  here  at  our  sides  there  are  true  hearts  that  love 

us, 

And  the  good  Lord  is  kind  to  the  joyous,  the 
brave. 

Let  the  battle  be  grim  and  a  thousand  assail  us  — 
By  the  sun  that  hath  led  us,  we  still  will  defy ! 
Though  the  fight  go  against  us,  our  hope  shall  not 

fail  us, 

Though  we  die  in  the  striving,  we  '11  laugh  as  we 
die. 


63 


FOG 

THE  murky  dark  which  fled  in  sullen  flight 
Before  the  dim  and  ineffectual  day, 
Loath  to  retreat  yet  daring  not  to  stay, 

Hath  left  her  pallid  sister,  foe  to  light, 

Fog,  pale  oblivion,  on  the  world.  The  blight 
Hangs  over  land  and  sea.  The  joyous  spray 
Leaps  and  is  lost,  and  in  its  cap  of  gray 

The  earth  like  some  dark  wizard  slips  from  sight. 

Now  am  I  all  alone  with  bending  reeds, 

Soft  sands,  the  clash  of  waves  in  civil  strife, 
The  yearning  tide,  the  damp  and  salty  air. 
This  hour  are  they  mine  —  and  all  earth's  needs, 
That  strain  like  spent  waves  up  the  shores  of  life, 
Stretch  out  pale  arms  and  whisper  to  me  there. 


FIGHTERS 

FEARLESS,  to  rise  or  fall, 

Arm  pressed  to  arm  we  stand 

Fighters  are  one  and  all  — 
Brother,  your  hand ! 

Hark,  to  the  rushing  storm, 
Battle  and  windy  night ! 

Here 's  to  a  sturdy  arm, 
Here  Js  to  a  winning  fight ! 

Hail !  Be  it  crown  or  pall, 
Triumph  or  wasted  land  — 

Fighters  are  one  and  all  — 
Brother,  your  hand ! 


SONG   OF  THE   GRAIL   SEEKERS 

ON,  on,  on,  with  never  a  doubt  nor  a  turning, 

We  ride,  we  ride  ! 
On,  on,  on,  striving  and  aching  and  learning, 

We  ride,  we  ride  ! 

With  ever  the  light  on  our  brows,  in  our  hearts  the 
unquenchable  yearning, 

And  the  grail  afar 

Like  a  golden  star 
Burning  and  burning  and  burning ! 

We  ride! 


66 


SUNDAY   MORNING   ON   FIFTH 
AVENUE 

I  SAW  the  Sabbath  Day  procession  go 

Down  the  long  avenue,  and  in  the  crowd 
I  saw  wan  faces,  shoulders  weak  and  bowed, 
Satiate  eyes,  and  cheeks  with  painted  glow, 

Feigning  a  glory  they  can  never  know, 
Robed  in  a  splendor  that  is  half  a  shroud. 
I  saw  strong  men,  weary  and  pale  and  proud, 
Crowned  all  with  flaunting  vanity  and  show  — 

Clay,  clay  triumphant !  Ah,  the  mockery  ! 

That  strong  men  should  have  dreamt  their  dreams 

for  these, 
That  heroes  should  have  died  to  make  these  free  ! 

Not  so !  Our  dreams  clay  shall  not  crucify, 

Nor  choke  their  strength  in  golden  robes  of  ease  ! 
Though  clay  be  mighty,  God's  flame  cannot  die ! 


CALM   SEA 

How  like  a  glowing  woman  lies  the  sea, 

Breathing  beneath  the  stars !  So  calm,  so  still, 
So  self-surrendering,  without  woe  or  will, 

As  one  who  knows  the  joys  that  are  to  be 

And  dreaming  basks  in  her  security. 

The  moonlight  is  her  girdle,  starry-pearled ; 
The  silver  surf  that  breaks  about  the  world 

Her  gown's  hem,  rustling  softly,  ceaselessly. 

Soon  from  the  west  will  come  the  wind,  her  lover, 
Singing  afar,  Make  ready,  I  am  here  ! 

And  she  will  laugh  and  fling  her  arms  above  her, 
And  her  great  breast  will  heave ;  and  strong  and 
clear 

Will  sound  his  voice,  half  earthly,  half  divine : 

Love  of  the  world,  beloved,  you  are  mine ! 


68 


THE   GREATER   BIRTH 

I  LEFT  the  crowded  streets  behind 

And  down  the  straight  white  road  I  went, 

To  open  field  and  wood  and  sky 
And  weary-limbed  content. 

Dumb  was  the  forest,  dumb  the  glade, 
Still  as  a  church  the  arching  boughs, 

Though  low  winds  tossed  my  tumbled  hair 
And  played  about  my  brows. 

I  slept,  I  woke.  The  sun  was  mine, 
The  sky,  the  birds,  the  fields  my  own ! 

And  I  was  neither  man  nor  god  — 
Nature  was  I,  alone. 

The  springs  of  earth  coursed  in  my  veins, 
From  head  to  heart,  from  hill  to  sea ; 

The  trees  were  my  stalwart  sons,  the  flowers  - 
My  daughters  that  played  on  the  lea. 

The  sky  was  my  dear  love,  bending  down ; 
And  I  sang  to  her  softly,  I  sang  to  her  loud 


And,  ah,  my  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  wind 
That  chases  the  sea-born  cloud. 

I  felt  the  heart-throbs  of  the  world 
Beating  in  me  the  greater  birth ; 

And  I  sang,  I  laughed,  I  cried  in  my  glee 
That  I  was  part  of  earth  ! 

Yet  though  the  sunshine  glistened  fair, 
And  clear  springs  sparkled  in  the  sod, 

I  trembled  as  I  raised  my  eyes, 
For  I  was  part  of  God. 


TO   A   BELOVED   COMPANION 

SWEET  sister  I  have  never  known, 
Yet  soul  to  soul  I  know  so  well, 

Beyond  the  outward  look,  the  tone, 

That  mourning  mother-love  could  tell ! 

Blue  were  your  eyes,  your  cheeks  were  white 
As  lilies  in  the  morning  dew  — 

'Tis  so  I  see  you  in  the  night 

And  whisper  in  my  dreams  to  you. 

On  April's  sunny  breath  you  came, 
On  chill  December's  winds  you  fled ; 

Nine  years  —  yet  not  for  me  —  the  flame 
Burned  among  men  and  comforted. 

The  arms  that  clasped  me,  soft  and  warm, 
Still  felt  beneath  their  warmth  the  touch 

Of  your  white,  flower-wreathed  form, 
Your  face,  that  they  had  loved  so  much. 

The  mother  lips  that  smiled  through  tears, 
What  did  they  whisper  to  us  then  — 

71 


To  you,  a  star  amid  the  spheres, 
To  me,  a  new-born  child  of  men  ? 

I  know  not,  yet  I  half  divine, 

When  night  and  tempest  rack  the  soul, 
*T  is  you  who  lay  your  hand  in  mine, 

'T  is  you  who  hold  me  to  the  goal ; 

And  through  the  doubts,  the  chill  dismay, 
The  sin,  the  penance,  and  the  rod, 

'T  is  you  who  touch  my  lips  and  say, 

"  J)oubt  not,  doubt  not,  there  is  a  God !  " 


HYMN   TO   ARTEMIS 

Bow,  my  queen,  unto  your  world ! 

See,  earth's  tired  children  sleep  : 
All  their  little  woes  lie  furled 

In  the  shadows,  still  and  deep, 
All  their  quiet  tears  are  dry  — 
Sleeping  all,  save  you  and  I. 

Come,  my  queen,  and  bend  your  face 
To  my  face  and  hear  my  prayer ! 

I  am  weary  of  the  race, 

Weary  of  the  dragging  care  : 

Take  me  to  your  silver  breast, 

Give  me  succor,  give  me  rest. 

Give  me  slumber,  give  me  dreams, 
Give  me  power  to  fight  again, 

Lest  the  morrow's  war  that  seems 
Hopeless,  be  not  fought  in  vain. 

Ay,  for  triumph,  ay,  for  death  — 

Give  me  strength  and  give  me  faith. 


73 


"MY   TRUE   LOVE   FROM   HER   PIL- 
LOW  ROSE" 

MY  true  love  from  her  pillow  rose 

And  wandered  down  the  summer  lane. 

She  left  her  house  to  the  wind's  carouse, 
And  her  chamber  wide  to  the  rain. 

She  did  not  stop  to  don  her  coat, 

She  did  not  stop  to  smooth  her  bed  — 

But  out  she  went  in  glad  content 
There  where  the  bright  path  led. 

She  did  not  feel  the  beating  storm, 

But  fled  like  a  sunbeam,  white  and  frail, 

To  the  sea,  to  the  air,  somewhere,  somewhere  — 
I  have  not  found  her  trail. 


74 


AUTUMN   TWILIGHT 

SUMMER  is  dead,  Summer  is  dead ! 

From  heavy  branches  drops  the  fruit, 
The  yellow  fields  are  harvested 

And  wan  and  destitute. 

No  more  the  wind  sings  in  the  stalks, 
No  more  the  poppies  seek  the  sun, 

Back  to  his  barns  the  reaper  walks 
With  Summer's  labor  done. 

Hark !  in  the  boughs  the  autumn  air 
Rustles  the  torn  and  brittle  leaves, 

Murmurous,  low,  like  the  sleepy  prayer 
Of  a  tired  child  that  grieves. 


75 


SONG  UNDER  THE  STARS 

IN  the  village  are  pleasure  and  music, 
Gay  voices  and  twanging  guitars  — 

But  here  in  the  brush  there  is  only  the  hush 
Of  night,  and  the  chant  of  the  stars ; 

The  stars  that  sing  low  in  the  heavens 
Like  children,  returning  at  night 

Down  a  dark  forest  stream,  half  asleep,  half 

a-dream  — 
So  happy,  so  weary,  so  white. 


WINTER 

I  GO,  I  gO, 

To  the  barren  plains  where  the  north  winds  blow, 

Where  the  branches  snap  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale 
And  the  march  of  the  northern  foe. 

To  the  empty  hills  and  the  frozen  trail 

And  the  winds'  low  wail 

I  go. 

For  Nature  my  Mother  is  old  and  chill 

And  hath  sore  need  of  me. 
Marvel  of  marvels,  Church  of  God  — 

Mother,  I  come  to  thee. 

I  come,  I  come, 
Though  the  music  of  hill  and  plain  be  dumb, 

And  the  wind  forget  the  rose  it  bore 
In  its  wailings  burdensome. 

Though  the  rose  be  dust  on  the  temple  floor, 

Through  the  shrouded  door 

I  come. 

For  Nature  my  Mother  is  old  and  chill 

And  hath  sore  need  of  me. 
Marvel  of  marvels,  Church  of  God  — 

Mother,  I  come  to  thee. 
77 


APPREHENSION 

UPON  a  star  in  infinite  space,  alone 

I  sit  and  watch  the  turning  of  the  hours ; 
About  me  lies  the  waste.  No  summer  showers 
Sprinkle  the  dust  with  blossoms ;  sand  and  stone 

Are  the  wind's  harp,  whose  music  is  a  moan 
As  of  some  monster  soul  in  doubt  who  cowers, 
Pale  in  the  shade  of  heaven's  eternal  towers, 
Before  that  One  whose  strength  makes  weak  his 
own. 

Far,  far  away,  the  noisy  sea  of  life 

Tosses  and  beats,  dim  as  some  melody 
Haunting  the  soul  with  half-remembered  strains. 

Through  nightmare  distances  I  watch  the  strife, 
And  dumbly  listen  for  that  one  dread  cry 
That  shall  fling  wide  the  Gate  of  Hundred  Pains. 


RESIGNATION 

I  KNOW  that  in  the  crowded  town, 
I  know  that  on  the  pleasant  lea, 

I  know  that  on  the  silver  down 
That  meets  the  loud  assailing  sea, 

Men  sorrow,  and  the  hot  tears  come. 

Oh,  aching  heart,  be  dumb,  be  dumb  ! 
Thy  woe  is  but  a  single  leaf 
In  the  green  garland  of  eternal  grief. 


79 


THE   GARDENS   OF   FERRARA 

OH,  prince,  my  prince,  be  not  so  generous  ! 
The  human  heart  is  weak,  it  cannot  bear 
As  much  of  human  kindness  as  of  care  ! 

Kill  me  !   But  crush  my  beaten  heart  not  thus ! 

God !   It  was  June  and  love  encircled  us, 

And  June  winds  whispered  in  her  wondrous  hair. 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed ;  her  throbbing  breast,  her 
eyes, 

Held  all  of  life  and  love  and  paradise ! 

Oh,  prince,  my  prince,  I  could  not  bear  to  go 
From  the  deep  silence  of  our  templed  isle, 
Where  fields  lay  soft  and  glimmered,  and  the  smile 

Of  heaven  was  ours,  and  breezes  murmured  low. 

Beneath  us  sang  the  sea  in  ebb  and  flow, 
And  in  the  cool  of  shadowed  peristyle 

And  gardens  dark  in  beauty  riotous 

The  larks  sang  all  their  happiest  songs  to  us. 

Oh,  prince,  my  prince,  the  summer  days  are  spent  — 
The  fields  are  barren  and  the  larks  are  fled; 
Within  the  wood  the  happy  leaves  lie  dead, 
80 


And  dead  is  love  and  surfeited  content. 

Let  not  your  arm  hold  back  its  punishment ! 

Mine  were  your  house,  your  wine-cups  and  your 

bread, 

Your  heart  —  and  in  its  silver  depths,  the  prize  — 
Your  sister  of  the  songs  and  magic  eyes. 

Your  sister — Prince!   What  is  it  that  you  name 
The  love  unbounded  as  the  mighty  sea  ? 
Is  it  the  friendship  that  you  bear  to  me 
Or  I  to  you  bore,  ere  the  bitter  shame 
Of  treason  and  of  perjured  honor  came  ? 

Is  that  the  love  which  is  so  wide  and  free  ? 
I  loved  —  the  dark  sea  closed  above  my  form 
And  quenched  my  soul  in  cataracts  of  storm  ! 

Ah,  prince,  my  prince,  you  that  are  clear  and  pure" 
As  the  pure  sky  on  perfect  summer  days, 
That  know  not  doubt's  slow  torture,  nor  the  ways 
That  turn  and  turn  and  leave  no  soul  secure, 
How  can  you  know  the  anguish  we  endure, 

We  common  thralls  of  human  fame  and  praise, 
That  love  but  where  love  seems  to  flee  from  us 
And  scorn  the  love  that  is  too  generous  ? 

I  am  a  singer,  builder  I  of  dreams, 
Born  to  be  tortured  and  to  torture  so 
The  hearts  of  them  that  love  me,  and  would  know 
81 


The  soul  wherein  the  singer's  beacon  gleams. 
Its  light  is  bitterness,  its  liquid  beams 

Leave  wells  of  fire  eternal  where  they  flow ; 
Its  look  is  grief,  its  touch  is  ended  faith, 
Its  love  is  sorrow  and  its  kiss  is  death. 

Into  your  courts  I  came.  You  called  me  friend, 
Your  sister —     Ah,  well  may  your  brows  grow 

dark! 

Your  sister  loved  as  I,  the  field  and  lark, 
Your  sister  loved  my  songs,  and  without  end 
Upon  her  lute  her  wondrous  head  would  bend ; 

Then,  eyes  uplifted,  catch  from  mine  the  spark 
That  burned  within  the  singer  and  the  song, 
And  gazing  thus,  sing  thus  the  whole  day  long. 

vUi,  June  was  on  the  world !     God,  what  is  man 
When  June's  warm,  color-bound,  luxuriant  days 
Spread  in  a  net  of  columbine,  a  maze 
Of  vistas,  and  from  world  to  world  the  span 
Of  dreams  unbroken  is  for  nymph  and  Pan  ! 

What,  then,  are  God's  laws  or  men's  human  ways  ? 
The  larks  sang  in  their  covert  —  who  shall  blame 
If  to  our  open  hearts  God's  glory  came  ? 

For  love  is  God's  own  glory  —  low  or  high. 
Though  deep  the  fault  and  stifling  be  the  sin, 
Still  is  there  place  for  breath  of  God  within ! 
82 


Still  is  there  something  reaching  to  the  sky, 
From  out  the  torn  breast  and  the  broken  cry, 

That  knows  that  love  to  glory  is  akin ! 
That  laws  are  human  as  the  hearts  they  break, 
And  gods  that  give  love  cannot  love  forsake. 

O  princely  giver  of  a  thousand  gifts, 

Let  your  hand  slay  me  ere  I  see  her  face ! 
Beyond  death's  door  perchance  a  little  space 

And  June  shall  come  again,  and  God  who  sifts 

The  music  from  the  silences,  and  lifts 

Perfection  from  the  dust,  may  show  us  grace. 

Fear  you  to  strike  ?  Let  me  then  grasp  the  blade ! 

Death  shall  —  she  comes  !  Nay,  I  am  not  afraid  ! 


ODE   BY   THE   SEA 

THE  sea  is  calm  before  the  low  land  wind. 

The  breakers'  loud,  imperious  voices,  stirred 
As  for  a  mighty  cause,  sink,  and  behind, 

The  black  and  awful  ocean,  charactered 
In  symbols  of  white  wrath  as  by  a  hand, 
Invisible,  prophetic,  now  lies  clean 
As  a  washed  slate.   In  azure  and  in  green 

It  laughs  to  heaven  —  in  purple  and  in  gray  - 
While  up  the  long  dunes  to  the  peopled  land 
Sound,  like  a  love  discarded,  stalks  away; 
Only  the  trailing  echoes  of  him  stay 
In  garrulous  ripples  twittering  to  the  sand. 

Oh,  beautiful  and  unperturbed  soul, 

Divine,  mysterious  !   On  thy  billows  sleeps 

Music,  and  in  the  thunder  of  thy  roll 

Tempestuous  prophecy,  and  in  thy  deeps  — 

As  in  a  crypt  where  dim  and  silent  ghosts 

Walk,  and  are  felt  to  pass,  though  never  heard 
Nor  seen,  but  only  terribly  inferred — 
Are  all  earth's  sorrows,  pettinesses,  pains, 

Laughter  and  tears  and  vaunting,  childish  boasts, 
Muttering  in  those  far  and  dark  domains 


Their  secrets,  till  the  listening  hurricanes 
Fling  them  like  seaweed  up  the  shaggy  coasts. 

Inscrutable  epitome  of  life, 

Living,  immortal !   In  thy  heart  is  all 
Man  ever  dreamed,  or  in  his  love,  at  strife 

With  law,  desired,  though  earth  and  heaven  fall 
Crashing  about  him  !  Triumph  on  thy  wave 
Marches  like  Tamburlaine ;  war,  with  the  beat 
Of  myriad  drums  and  strong,  unfaltering  feet, 

Cannons  and  musketry  and  men's  loud  cries, 
Thunders  reiterate ;  from  cliff  and  cave 

Despair  with  black  and  inexpressive  eyes 
Shrieks,  and  from  ebbing  seas  that  agonize 
On  rock-strewn  shores,  regret  and  hunger  rave. 

I  know  thy  heart.  Pain  is  its  sombre  lord 

As  pain  is  lord  of  all  who  strive  on  earth. 
A  little  while  joy  gleams,  as  on  a  sword 

The  sunlight  laughs,  or  on  thy  deep,  the  mirth 
Of  summer  zephyrs,  'neath  a  calm  white  moon, 
Robes  thy  dark  limbs  in  jewel-flecked  brocade 
An  hour  as  for  a  merry  masquerade. 

How  thy  low  combers  laugh  in  dwarfish  glee ! 
The  world  is  malachite  and  silver ;  soon 
Storm,  like  a  pirate  looming  silently 
Out  of  the  mist,  shall  take  thy  gems  in  fee  — 
And  where  young  Rapture  sang,  old  Grief  shall  croon. 
85 


Grief  is  thine  other  self,  twin  soul  and  mate  ! 
Lone  spirit,  through  thy  shadowy  palaces 
Wandering  like  Niobe,  intemperate 

Of  tears,  that  are  love's  last,  supreme  caress. 
She  sings,  and  in  the  harsh  surf  beating  high 
Up  the  brown  sands,  I  hear  the  wailing  dirge. 
Through  the  long  night  the  melancholy  surge 

Of  ebbing  waters  like  a  dying  prayer 
Haunts  me,  and  when  the  day  with  laughing  eye 
Wakes  the  dull  east,  I  seek  thy  strand,  and  there, 
Bowing  her  silvery,  disheveled  hair 
O'er  the  world's  feet,  I  see  Grief,  sobbing,  lie. 

Great  brother  of  ourselves,  in  whose  veins  seethe 

Our  passions  and  our  anguish !   Day  by  day 
I  stand  upon  thy  shores.  I  see  thee  breathe 
Softly,  as  when  a  child  grown  tired  at  play 
Sleeps  with  his  toys  ;  I  see  thee  moan  and  fret, 
And  all  humanity,  with  press  and  noise 
Of  its  brief  day,  with  agonies  and  joys 

Never  half  comprehended,  from  the  deep 
Rises  and  tells  its  glory,  its  regret. 

Dumbly  I  watch  the  pitiless  breakers  sweep, 
Crashing  ashore,  the  souls  that  laugh,  that  weep. 
I  hear  their  voices.  I  shall  not  forget. 


86 


SONNET  IN   CANDLELIGHT 

Now  on  my  shoulder  droops  thy  little  head 
Resigned  to  weariness  at  last,  to  sleep. 
Mute  are  the  rebel  wailings,  calm  and  deep 

The  bosom's  gentle  motion,  comforted 

Of  every  pain  !   How  swiftly  are  they  fled 

The  day's  loud  cares !  Above  thee  now  I  keep 
The  shepherd's  watch  beside  the  weary  sheep. 

Slumber,  dear  lamb  !  No  wolf  shall  near  thy  bed  ! 

Over  thy  face  I  bend,  thy  little  hands. 
And  as  I  gaze,  lo,  all  the  mighty  schemes 
That  reason  builds,  triumphant  over  faith, 
Melt  as  the  wave's  crest  in  the  sea,  a  wraith. 
And  all  man's  wisdom  is  the  light  that  streams 
Glorious,  where  He  who  blessed  the  children  stands. 


CONCERNING   SONNETS 

A  LITTLE  sonnet  is  a  dangerous  thing ! 

Born  of  the  luring  moon,  and  eyes  impearled 
With  glance  of  eyes,  that  set  a  soul  to  sing 

In  fourteen  lines  its  secret  to  the  world. 
Love's  secrets  are  but  vain  when  lovers  start 

To  lay  their  offerings  in  the  sonnet's  mould  ; 
And  fourteen  lines  can  bare  the  fullest  heart 

Of  every  woe  and  rapture  it  can  hold  ! 
Yea,  sonnet-singing  is  a  treacherous  pit. 

For  though  we  cast  a  treasure  down  each  day 
To  fill  the  chasm,  yet  no  man  hath  wit 

To  close  that  gap,  till  death  shall  show  the  way. 
A  sonnet  is  a  pitfall  and  a  snare  — 
Lover  and  poet,  hear  it,  and  beware  ! 


88 


SUMMER'S   END 

Now  is  the  gray,  the  grievous  season  here, 

When  from  the  east,  on  ponderous  ashen  wings, 
Storm,  with  his  drab,  importunate  underlings, 

Comes  like  a  bailiff  to  the  bankrupt  year. 

Now  like  a  prodigal,  with  mock  and  jeer 

Driven  from  his  threshold,  while  the  sharp  air 

stings 
His  Lydian  softness,  clad  in  threadbare  things, 

Summer  to  prison  totters,  fallen  and  sear. 

Now  is  the  time  when  to  the  aching  heart 
The  ancient  griefs,  th'  eternal  questions  rise. 
Man  comes  and  goes,  the  glory  in  his  eyes 

Fades  and  is  quenched ;  like  brittle  leaves  depart 
All  things  that  eye  can  see  and  hand  secure : 
The  laws  of  Life  and  Change  alone  endure. 


SONG  FROM  THE  GARDENER'S  LODGE 

RHINE    VALLEY 

WEE,  pretty  jewels  have  I  three, 
Frolicking  under  the  chestnut  tree. 

Two  are  my  diamonds,  one  my  pearl  — 
Those  are  my  boys  and  this  my  girl. 

My  oldest  shall  be  a  sergeant  tall 
With  a  walk  and  a  beard  like  a  general ; 

And  an  arm  for  his  king  and  a  heart  for  a  wench, 
And  an  itch  in  his  bones  to  stick  the  French. 

My  second  shall  learn  the  ways  of  peace, 
Of  spreading  bloom  and  field's  increase, 

Of  spade  and  hoe  and  clod  and  seed, 
Of  dropping  fruit  and  clinging  weed. 

Little  he  '11  reck  of  war  or  fame  — 
But  every  bud  he  '11  call  bv  name. 
90 


Oh,  and  the  youngest,  oh,  my  pride, 
*T  is  she  will  stay  at  her  mother's  side, 

With  broom  and  kettle  and  rag  and  pan 
Till  the  good  Lord  send  her  a  gardener-man ; 

And  a  lodge  and  children  two  or  three 
Frolicking  under  a  chestnut  tree. 


SONG    OF   THE   WICKED    FRIAR 

LAUGHING  maiden,  pretty  maiden, 
With  your  eyes  of  brown  — 

Give  me  but  a  single  look, 
I  Jll  wear  it  as  a  crown  ! 

Give  me  but  a  kiss,  my  lass, 
And  touch  of  hands  so  fair  — 

By  faith,  I  '11  lay  me  down  and  die, 
Without  a  priest  or  prayer. 

For  Heaven  is  all  too  cool  for  love, 
And  many  good  souls,  I  own, 

Would  rather  tend  the  coals  in  pairs, 
Than  play  with  pearls  alone. 


92 


LULLABY 

FOR    M.    O.    H. 

THE  wind  is  humming  lullabies, 
The  birds  carol,  happy  and  long, 

The  sea  has  forgot  her  stormy  cries 
And  drones  an  old,  old  song. 

And  it 's  all  for  you,  my  bud  of  the  Spring ! 

But,  oh,  when  your  sleepy  lids  fall, 
The  little  white  stars  in  the  sky  shall  sing 

The  loveliest  song  of  them  all. 


93 


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